


In Places We Won't Walk

by awfully_yellow



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bittersweet Ending, Fluff and Angst, Heavy pining, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion-centric, M/M, Pining, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Song: Places We Wont Walk, Songfic, The Coast, hope i could make it justice, its a BEAUTIFUL song, overuse of the word "somehow"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:54:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25148782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awfully_yellow/pseuds/awfully_yellow
Summary: Jaskier wakes up well rested, between Geralt's arms. It's routine, he knows it is, but somehow it still surprises him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	In Places We Won't Walk

**Author's Note:**

> Usual disclaimers: not my characters, not making any moneys 
> 
> I haven't played the games, nor read the books, so this is all based on Netflix's series "The Witcher" and their characterization. And Bruno Major's song, In Places We Wont Walk, which i can just recommend.

He wakes up well-rested. Which isn’t unusual anymore, but sometimes Jaskier still feels rather surprised by it, by the comfort of it. It isn’t always easy to find comfort in the Path, as Geralt has tried to explain him time and time again, but they aren’t in the Path anymore, are they? 

Nights spent sleeping in cold, hard forest floors, or in a much too small room in a shitty inn that charged them more just for the fact that Geralt’s a witcher are exchanged for a familiar bed that remembers their bodies and smells like them. 

Geralt is holding him, his face hidden in Jaskier’s neck, with one of his knees between Jaskier’s ones. Outside the window, the sun is not yet awake, and the sky is still rather dark, but that’s to be expected. Jaskier is not a morning person, never has been, but he knows that Geralt prefers to be out and about before the sunrise, and if he wants to wake up beside the witcher he has to make a little sacrifice. 

Geralt stirs not much later, tightening his hold on Jaskier just a bit as he opens his eyes. The sight isn’t unusual anymore, but it still leaves him breathless. He probably looks like a loon, completely in awe of the person between his arms– with his hair a disarray and maybe a small bit of dried saliva on his chin, he probably looks a fool, but Geralt smiles at him all the same. 

“Good morning,” he says, instead of grunting, which strikes Jaskier as odd but then the witcher is lifting his chin and connecting their lips in a close-mouthed kiss and Jaskier forgets any funny feelings and just about everything else. 

His heartbeat must be deafening to the witcher’s enhanced senses, but Geralt doesn’t complain, nor does he pull back. No, the witcher hums into the kiss, an awfully fond sound that has Jaskier’s heart soaring somewhere behind his ribs. He could spend an eternity laying in bed, leaving gentle, innocent kisses all over Geralt’s face and shoulders, just for the sake of it, not amounting to anything other than tasting the warmth of sleep still holding onto Geralt. But he knows the witcher has somewhere to be, and must be leaving soon. 

They share a cup of tea and a simple breakfast, and then Geralt is out of the door, not without throwing him another maddening sweet smile over his shoulder. And Jaskier finishes his tea, chamomile, and tries to remember what does Geralt have to do so early. 

Somehow, he just knows that this is their routine: they wake up together, wrapped around each other, they share a little breakfast while Jaskier tries to play footsie with his partner and Geralt tries to act like he is late but will still kiss him goodbye. And then he leaves, everyday, but Jaskier doesn’t know what he does. It’s like a blank in his mind, but it’s okay, because the tea was delicious and Geralt didn’t once looked tired or annoyed, and it’s okay because Jaskier isn’t a morning person anyway. 

Outside, the sunlight is beginning to dance off the leaves, and birds of red color the trees, and flowers are filled with buzzing bees and Jaskier walks his way back to their bed that still smells like Geralt, because he has time for a little nap before his afternoon duties. 

++

The children are as lively as always, and he knows all their names and knows, somehow, little details about all of them, like how Joe is a little bit of a prankster so he shouldn’t sit beside Louise since she prefers to keep to herself; or how Sophie's birthday is getting closer and any day now she will ask Jaskier to write her a song. 

He knows little details, like how he has already started the song and the draft is sitting somewhere on his small studio back home, but doesn’t know how he knows, just like he can’t remember writing the song. 

But then Geralt walks up to them as the class is finishing, and Jaskier knows, somehow, that this is routine as well, and Geralt looks as happy to see him as he himself is, so he pushes all funny feelings away and hugs his witcher. 

Geralt hugs him back, and that is a little bit weird, since Jaskier can’t remember a time where the witcher has ever been this generous about physical contact, but he holds on tighter and decides to not a gift horse on the mouth and ignores how Roach was nowhere around their house this morning and how he can’t remember the last time he saw her. And he holds on a little tighter.

++

The best thing about living here, he thinks, is the people. The sea is filled –has always been filled– with fishes, crabs and turtles that the human either hunts or protects, and sirens and other creatures that the human shies away from. Which means that Jaskier’s songs aren’t the first testament of witchers’ good intentions in these lars. There are tales of ships protected, and children saved from being drown, and monsters fought,, and Jaskier listens to every single one of them with an awestruck expression and sets to work in getting them all written into song. 

And while the tales and Jaskier’s songs work, Geralt is the one that makes the biggest difference, even if he would reject that claim. He has always been noble to a fault, selfless and kind, and the people in the coast are quick to realize that and take him in. 

Tonight, they make their way to the town’s biggest tavern, where people in all tables nod their heads at them. Some people call out for them by name, and they answer in kind, and some others even get close and greet them, hitting them in the back in camaraderie. Some of them must know Geralt from his morning activities, whatever they are– and that still bothers Jaskier, the fact that he doesn’t know, because he has been following his witcher for two decades, fighting tooth and nail to learn everything he could about the man, and not knowing something like this simply doesn’t make any lick of sense. 

But the people are friendly enough, and nobody realizes his internal turmoil,so he ignores it as well, because this is everything he has ever wanted for Geralt– to be treated with kindness, and as a person, as anyone else, to be appreciated not only because he is strong and brave, and he is, but because he is  _ good _ , and it’s about time people realized as well, and he distracts himself with the ale in his hand until he doesn’t feel as emotional anymore. 

It doesn’t matter. Geralt knows his so well that he picked up his weird mood probably since the beginning, sensing something was amiss. He lifts an eyebrow in silent curiosity but Jaskier just shakes his head, shrugs. 

Like this, with Geralt’s gold eyes on his, and the warm atmosphere of the tavern around them, and nobody throwing Geralt dirty glances or spitting the ground he walks on, it’s easy to forget about everything else, to forget about how he can’t remember how they got here, forget about how the hours between his afternoon classes and now are all completely blank, even if outside the sky is already dark and hours must have passed. 

The bard that was singing when they entered finishes his set, and him and the others ask Jaskier to play for them when he finishes his meal. So he sings and dances, and the people dance around him. Some of their neighbors buy them drinks, and he knows them all of them by name, and knows little details about them, as with the kids, and can’t remember how he knows. 

He blames the alcohol, even if he isn’t anywhere near drunk yet. 

That night Geralt gets him to bed, and once again he can’t remember anything between his set and now, completely blank, and he knows he isn’t drunk and wasn’t then either. But Geralt is holding him, his face on Jaskier’s neck, and one of his knees making way between Jaskier’s, and he decides it’s something his future self can worry about. 

++

The next day starts the same, which makes him feel so relieved it’s crazy, ridiculous, because this is routine for them, so why would he fear waking up any other way? 

Geralt kisses his worries away yet again, he wonders if that’s routine as well, and they share tea and another goodbye kiss, and Jaskier doesn’t even try to search out for Roach. If she isn’t here, there must be a reason for it. 

It kinds of make sense, he thinks, since Roach is somewhat of a symbol of Geralt travelling and everything else here is so perfect that the reminder of Geralt leaving has no place here. 

He doesn’t know where “here” is, but he falls asleep for his routine nap before he can think further about it, not that he particularly wants to. 

++

That afternoon, Joe makes Jonathan believe there’s a spider crawling up his back, and Jaskier doesn’t know either of them, but he knows, somehow, that Jonathan isn’t afraid of spiders but Louise is, so maybe he was right about making them sit far from each other, after all. 

Sophie’s mother comes after class. Her name is Muriel, he knows even thought he knows now that he doesn’t know her, and invites them all to Sophie’s birthday party the next week in her house. 

He wants to tell her he doesn’t know where her house is, but– he knows, somehow, that when the time comes he won’t get lost, and he will remember little details about his way there. 

His mouth tastes like ashes but then Geralt is there, yet again, and invites him to walk with him alongside the shore. 

This time, he doesn’t lose the hours around the sunset in a blank, thankfully, and he relishes the walk to the shore and he does their stroll there. They walk slowly, unbothered and unhurried, with their hands connected loosely between them, and– this is routine as well, it is, he knows it is, somehow–

“Geralt,” he stops walking and the witcher stops a few steps in front of him and turns. 

“What is it, Jask?” Geralt always calls him that, he knows, it’s routine for them, but he can’t remember a single time he ever called him that. 

But this Geralt is smiling at him like he loves him, and this Geralt calls him ‘Jask’ and lets him hold his hand, and–

“Where is Roach?” 

Out of everything he could have asked the other man. Geralt is apparently shocked as well, but he recovers quickly and laughs, surprised. 

It’s a beautiful sound, much more beautiful than the sunset behind Geralt, or the waves gently stroking the shore, or the petals of any flower could ever try being. It’s a sound he has been trailing after for twenty years, and he only wanted to come to the coast because he thought he might find it here. Might even keep it, like a little toy ship in a glass bottle. 

Geralt walks a couple of steps up to him, where the water can gently stroke his toes. They are almost of the same height, only a couple of inches in difference, but sometimes it’s easy to forget because Geralt is larger than life. But this Geralt looks like a man, not a legend, he looks content and soft– well-rested. It shouldn’t surprise him, it’s routine for them. 

“Are you thinking about traveling?” This Geralt says, jokes, “Maybe you should leave that for the younger, anything could happen to a bard in his old age.” 

The comment is meant to rile him up, but he fails to take the bait and instead grabs Geralt by the wrist of the hand he was already holding. 

“What could happen to me?” he asks, aiming desperately for casual even if his hold betrays him. But this Geralt doesn’t realize, and that’s wrong, is wrong because Geralt can always know when he is anxious, he cares. He cares in his rough way that he translates in grunts and manhandling him in front of their fire to search for any injuries in the bard, but they haven’t been traveling in a while, have they? “Hm? Wouldn’t my witcher protect me then?” 

He practically begs, tightening his hold on Geralts’s wrist. 

“Always” This Geralt says, much too soft and much too lovingly. But then he bends over a little to kiss Jaskier in the forehead, and the bard accepts it, drinks it all in, even if this Geralt never answered him about Roach. 

++

He didn’t lose the sunset, but he does lose the way back home. But he is getting used to the blanks, so he undresses and starts getting ready for bed. 

He doesn’t remember buying any of the clothes he sees while changing, doesn’t remember buying the shoes or the sheets for the bed or this house, but then Geralt is walking up to him yet again, and hugs him across the middle, with Jaskier’s back to the witcher’s chest and his chin just above Jaskier’s shoulder. 

He holds him, tightly, as if he were afraid to lose him as well. And, out of everything,  _ this  _ is ridiculous, because he has dreamed about it for years but knows Geralt isn’t afraid of anything more than he is afraid of needing and being needed as well. His Geralt would rather fight a dozen of wyverns while completely naked before letting himself be vulnerable like this.  His Geralt wouldn’t even call him friend. His Geralt would save his life time and time again, but that’s just the person he is, he would save anybody’s life; his Geralt would leave him behind across towns and barely greet him when Jaskier makes his way back to him, lest he gets the wrong idea, but this Geralt moves him around until they are both facing a mirror in the wall and–

Jaskier looks different. There’s a little stubble on his chin and alongside his jawline, his eyes are surrounded by laugh lines, but he doesn’t look old, he looks like someone who has been happy for a long time, he finds that he doesn’t hate it, not at all. There’s a little silver on his temples, just a little, and this Geralt reaches up to kiss it. And then the Jaskier in the reflection looks a little dazed and his eyes begin shining with what appear to be tears. He doesn’t know if the Jaskier in the reflection lost his breath as well, if they both are as affected as the other, but he would bet on it. 

“Always” this Geralt promises again. Jaskier’s always is shortest than Geralt’s, a fact that used to bother him, but now he could trade anything for just this one night. 

They fall into bed together, holding the other. It’s routine, he knows, but he still commits it all to memory: the weight of Geralt beside him, the feel of the witcher’s arms around him, the warmth of his body, the way he can feel him breathe on his neck, the familiar covers around them, the euphoria of being able of playing with his white hair. He uses his calloused-covered fingertips to caress every part of Geralt he can reach, his cheekbones, his chin, his lips, his brow that doesn’t have the stress-wrinkles he is used to and loves as much as he loves the rest of the witcher, his shoulders that aren’t as tense as the ones he remembers, his back, the form of his spine. It’s routine, but it feels different today. Maybe because yesterday night he wasn’t thinking about Roach, or the mountain, or the war with Nilfgaard, or the Child Surprise. So he holds on tighter because he might wake up alone, and all for asking about a horse. 

++

He does wake up alone, but it’s okay, it’s routine, really. 

He missed the morning market, but that’s okay too, because he is only out of cheese and it might have been what got him dreaming weirdly last night, so it isn’t that big of a lose anyway. 

He pays the innkeeper for breakfast. There isn’t any tea, but he doesn’t think he could stomach it even if there were so it’s all for the best. He doesn’t know the name of anyone around him, but he does remember how he got here, travelling after a rumour of the white wolf. 

Routine as well. 

The sunlight has been dancing off the leaves for a while he finally hits the road again. The air is dry and warm, none of the salty humidity of living close to the sea, no, they are too far north for that. There aren’t birds of red coloring the trees today, but there are flowers and bees still, so not all is lost. 

He doesn’t lose any hours, there aren’t any blanks in his day. He doesn’t know if he didn’t dream them, or if they had the misluck of being the parts of a dream that get forgotten once morning comes. He prefers the first option, somehow, because then he didn’t lose them and they just never existed. Dream-Jaskier could keep Geralt, why would he keep all memories as well? 

He also prefers, somehow, to think their house doesn’t exist, that there isn’t any bed waiting to learn their shapes. That there isn’t any Joe or Jonathan or Louise or Sophie and her birthday, and her song that he will never finish writing. That there isn’t any coast for them to walk on, or any tavern where Geralt could be just a man. 

He prefers to think they don’t exist, because it’s better  _ somehow _ than the alternative: that they do, somewhere– in places they won’t walk. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first witcher fic ! Probably obvious, to be honest, but this song just didn't leave me go, seemed perfect for them.  
> Please, i love constructive criticism, anything works and i wont be able to thank it enough, please help me get better at writing. 
> 
> And, most importantly, thank u so much for reading !!!


End file.
